


This Christmas Is Ours Alone

by softnoirr



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Winter Oneshots 2020, its fluff your honour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28130235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softnoirr/pseuds/softnoirr
Summary: “Oh, shit,” Tobin says, leaning back in her chair. The sky has opened up ahead of her and the clouds spell Oh My God, Oh My God, Oh My God. Santa is coming down in his sleigh to drop a huge sack of coal labeled ‘stupidity’ on her head, “I want to marry Christen”“Yes,” Allie says as if it’s a passing comment on the weather.
Relationships: Tobin Heath/Christen Press
Comments: 25
Kudos: 258
Collections: Preathfics Winter 2020 Collection





	This Christmas Is Ours Alone

**Author's Note:**

> This is absolute nonsense lacking coherent plot structure. It only makes sense if you operate under the assumption that Tobin only has two brain cells at any given time and she gave them to Christen for safekeeping before this story begins. 
> 
> This is an alternate universe where Americans have Christmas Crackers
> 
> Title is from This Christmas Is for Us by Shelby Earl. Poem is by me. 
> 
> happy holidays, stay safe xx

**Forget the turkey, you can carve me to pieces, I’ll plate you up**

_ This Christmas, I’ve decided, is for you and me _

_ The trees can grow tall in their pens  _

_ The boy scouts that sell them tired by the roadside _

_ We’ll let the carolers run dry, and the eggnog grow stale  _

_ The angel will not grace the tree, for I have one here  _

_ And she keeps her gaze fixed on me  _

_ This Christmas, I think, the cards should bare our names _

_ They’ll wish us well, happy holidays _

_ Printed ink that touches our edges and stains our fingers _

_ Staining our mouths through the food we made on our own  _

_ May you warm your belly with a hearty meal _

_ Of my festive heart _

_ But dish a plate for just yourself _

_ Keep the leftovers for me  _

_ Should I die like the Lord on a cross, _

_ I will know that you are the fable, whispered in pews _

_ Unstudied in rooms _

_ That pressed the water to my mouth as I bled  _

_ And wished a good night, that knew I was not going far _

_ Not as long as there was you  _

_ The world was made in glistened lights, _

_ Tinsel is but a shrine to your eyes  _

_ For so long as it's Christmas, this is true  _

_ This Christmas, I know, was made for just us  _

_ This Christmas, my love, there’s nothing but _

  
  


The neighbourhood is frostbitten, creeping up the windows in icy shards and winter wonderlands. The house next door has already started on their decorations, blurry streaks of red and green creeping through the fog of the cold and the bleariness of Tobin’s eyesight in the middle of the night. Christen would have told her to go to sleep, were it not for the fact that she was probably wading through an airport or hailing a cab about now. That does, of course, leave Tobin utterly unable to sleep; the bed too empty, the sheets were too easily stolen. 

It’s been years, and she still hasn’t really figured out how to sleep without her. 

Sweet, in sentiment, but in practice, it means Tobin is halfway through baking a Gingerbread house in the eerie hours of not really night, and not realistically morning, well aware she’ll have to attempt to guide a bunch of twelve year olds through a PE class once the Hello Kitty clock on the wall ticks into undeniable daytime. Hopefully, she could just get away with leading them out into the snow and letting them have at it while she sipped on the biggest coffee she could find. That did, however, seem unlikely. 

Inevitably, she would feel obligated to put actual effort into the lesson, despite half the student body and a fair percentage of the teaching staff having already checked out in anticipation of the holidays. Which would mean, just as predictably, having to put up with a headache and Allie’s mocking in the staff room.

  
This was the way of the world, she supposes. Merry Christmas to her and her absence driven insomnia. 

It is a pretty sick Gingerbread house, if she’s being entirely honest. Misshapen on one side and not what an architect would describe as “structurally sound,” but inarguably awesome. The recipe had called for gumdrops to decorate the roof, but their cupboards were bare of them and Tobin felt that driving to the supermarket for candy for a gingerbread house she didn’t have a purpose for was probably a step too far. They did, however, have icing sugar and food dye; Tobin had made do. 

She’s pulled from admiring her handiwork by a pointed cough. When she looks up, Christen is leaning against the doorframe, eyebrows raised in amusement. Her jeans are wrinkled and the sleeves of her hoodie are tugged down over her hands, but her eyes are alight with amusement. 

“Hi,” Tobin says, a piping bag filled with lumpy icing suspended in mid-air. 

“Are you baking?” Christen asks incredulously, dropping her purse onto the counter. Tobin peers at her through her eyelashes. There’s a smear of flour under Tobin’s eyebrow that catches on her eyelid and leaves white spots floating about.

Tobin hesitates. No point lying now, “Yes?”

“Why?” 

“I like… sweet… things?”

“Asking or telling, babe.” 

“I mean, honestly, Chris. Asking.” 

Christen laughs, peels of delight, and Tobin is reminded, as she often is, just how much she loves her. If the Grinch’s heart had been two sizes too small, then Tobin thinks hers might tend towards two sizes two big whenever she sees Christen, if the way it squeezes up against her breast bone is anything to go by. Or maybe it’s two-sizes-just-right. 

“Tobes, it’s,” she glances at her watch deliberately, “four am.”

“Why are we, like, enforcing business hours on cake?” Tobin challenges. Christen tilts her head with a smile. It’s probably pointless trying to argue her case, but it is, at the very least, worth a try. “You’re the one that’s getting home at four, how am I the crazy one?” 

Christen rounds the kitchen bench, looping an arm around Tobin’s waist and pressing a kiss to the edge of her shoulder. Tobin lets the piping bag drop onto the bench to drape an arm around her. Christen peers up at her through her lashes, unassuming in a way Tobin recognises well enough to know she’s being mocked, “It’s okay to admit that you couldn’t sleep without me in your arms, you know. I won’t make fun of you” 

Tobin scoffs, “You totally would.” 

“Yeah, probably.” 

“You’re doing it right now.” 

“Yep.” Tobin wants to be offended, but Christen tilts her head up to capture her lips in a kiss, and there isn’t really much to protest over at that.

Sometimes, it feels like the world could end and it’ll all be okay so long as Christen runs a hand along the ridges of her back and whispers sweet nothings in the gentle lilt of her voice. They’ve been together long enough it almost feels as if the world has ended once or twice to little effect, personalities and eras rising and falling along with the years. The only constant being Christen’s gentle kiss. 

“You taste like gingerbread” Christen mumbles against her lips,

“Good?” Tobin asks. Christen just hums, tugging her closer and fitting their mouths firmly together. Tobin can feel little grains of sugar between their mouths, but she doesn’t mind one bit. 

Tobin has never been all that fussed about commercialised Christmas and all its merriment. It tends to be, in her experience, an exercise in plastic and fatigue. From the spikes of fake trees to the slide of fake snow all packaged up in pretty little bows. The gingerbread kits they sold in the supermarket being as much a farce as the cardboard cut out Santa. 

It does have its merits, though. Chief among them being that Christen enjoys it, and when Christen enjoys things her smile was enough to pull Tobin along with anything. So, Gingerbread houses in the middle of the night after business trips. It makes sense. It's perfectly reasonable. She  _ swears _ . 

“How was the trip?” Tobin mumbles when Christen draws back, watching as she swipes at the sugar and cinnamon that coats the edge of her mouth and sucks it off her thumb. 

“Boring. Good. Not very Christmassy.” Christen sighs, patting her once on the hip before releasing her hold and rounding back around the counter to plant herself in one of the spinning stools they’d salvaged from the naturestrip. It never sits evenly on the ground and spins of its own volition, but Christen had managed to clean even the most stubborn layers of rust off it while Tobin had contributed disparaging comments. She was sort of amazing like that. 

Tobin swipes a blob of icing across the sagging roof of her Gingerbread house and tries not to frown too much when it slides half the way down immediately. Apparently it was meant to be gumdrops for a reason. 

Christen swipes a piece of broken Gingerbread and bites down on it, chewing slowly with a furrowed brow, “I was thinking-”

“Risky.”

“Which one of us is making questionable baked goods in the middle of the night because they missed their girlfriend?”

Tobin huffs a laugh, biting into the flesh of her lip and trying to will the broken pattern of the rooftop into submission. “Alright, continue.” 

“We should host Christmas this year.” Christen says, decisively, in the tone she tends to put on when she’s already come up with not only a complete plan but also contingency plans for any and all possible mistakes. Tobin isn’t sure why she bothers sounding so firm. They both know Tobin’s going to cave the minute Christen wants something bad enough to try and convince her. 

“Our apartment is like, two square feet,” She protests anyway, giving the open plan kitchen living room a cursory glance, already plotting out exactly how they were going to cram all of the Press’ and Heaths around their dining table. It was probably doomed to be a fire hazard. She thinks one of their neighbours is a firefighter, and she isn’t sure whether that’ll be a benefit or a risk factor in this case.

A fat blob of red icing slides from the top of the Gingerbread house all the way down to the tray beneath it. Tobin watches it’s excruciating fall from grace with a weary sigh. 

Christen hums, watching the ill fated path of the icing in quiet amusement. “I think it’d be nice.”

  
“You think my Dad will let me carve the turkey if it's my house?” Tobin wonders aloud, finally giving up and tossing the piping bag aside. It was going to be a pain to clean up tomorrow, but she can’t bring herself to make it easier on morning-Tobin. Four am Tobin just isn’t that considerate. 

“It’s the landlords house.” Christen says.    
  


“He sucks, though.” 

“Still his house.”

“Well, like,  _ that _ sucks.” Tobin says. Christen’s jaw works around the smile she’s trying and failing to hide. “You’re gonna have to show me how to make that extend-y thing for the table work. We won’t all fit.” 

Christen smiles, wide and consuming, and Tobin doesn’t know why she even paused on the idea of giving her something she wanted. “Is that a yes?” 

“Yeah. Let's do it.” Tobin grins, and the smile it gains from Christen is blinding. She sparkles just a touch brighter than the whole street of Christmas lights outside. Holds a gleam in her eyes that Christmas spirit couldn’t ever dream of touching. 

Tobin isn’t really sure how they’re going to manage it. The apartment really is way too small for both of their families, and Tobin really can’t cook a full Christmas dinner to save her life. Which may be exactly what she has to do if she’s hosting all of the siblings in this small of a space. She wonders exactly which shade of pathetic it was to invite your whole family into your apartment just to make your parents cook for you. Probably a fairly dark one. 

She looks at Christen, and she can’t find it within herself to stress about it, though. If it makes her happy, it’ll figure itself out. They’ll buy the nice wine and some worst case scenario frozen pizzas. It’ll be fine, as long as everyone is smiling. 

“Hey,” Christen says, breaking through the milky layer of quiet in the apartment, the sagging gingerbread between them and a car passing through puddles hushedly outside, “Merry Christmas.” 

“Its,” Tobin glances at the screen of her phone “the 5th.” 

Christen rolls her eyes, “Merry Christmas, Tobin.” 

“We don’t even have a tree yet.”

“We’ll do it tomorrow. Merry Christmas.” Christen says, a faux serious set to her brow. Tobin shakes her head, jots that down in a growing list of seasonal tasks. 

“Yeah. You too.” Tobin says, nodding gravely. Christen’s eyes narrow.

“Say it.” 

“Say what?” 

“Tobin-” 

“I don’t understand the assignment, babe.”

Christen scoffs, “You’re not nearly as cute as you think you are.” 

Tobin leans across the counter, resting her cheek on her palm so their faces are a hairsbreadth apart. Christen preens like she knows she’s won, like she knows she always will, and Tobin just smiles at her softly, her voice husky when she murmurs. “Merry Christmas, Chris.”

They go to bed filled and bubbling with starchy gingerbread and mumbled words. When Tobin falls asleep, she smiles into Christen’s hair. 

It’s too early to celebrate, but it’s shaping up to be a good Christmas.

*

Of course, the world hates Tobin. It hates her face and her body clock and her sleep schedule. It hates her sanity and the car radio, because she wakes up to a blaring alarm having had minus amounts of sleep and demands that she drag herself to work despite the lack of sleep and the setting icing draped like spider webs across the kitchen counter. 

It’s one of those things that's at least 85% her fault - she was the one that stayed up until daylight was creeping through the windows. She was the one that waved all of that away in favour of agreeing to unadvisable holiday plans. Fifteen percent of the issue can be attributed to Christen and the fact that Tobin loves her to a point of insomnia. So, it's mostly her fault, but were she to have to have an argument about it, the Titanic would drag itself from the bottom of the ocean and Rose would learn to share doors before she even considered admitting that with  _ words _ . 

Like, yeah, no thanks, she’ll save herself a decade of mocking from her friends. 

She’d probably put up with it from Christen, but that would just get her a different kind of mocking from everyone else. The plan of just biting her lip and suffering in pitiful silence while the bags under her eyes grow heavier and heavier is the one she’s sticking to. 

Christen is still dead asleep when Tobin tiptoes out of the apartment with a flask filled with coffee and a pile of unfinished marking under her arm. Tobin is big enough to admit she envies her. The idea of crawling back under their insanely high thread count sheets that feel like butter and are entirely attributable to Christen’s ability to be a high functioning adult, and getting to creep in another half hour of sleep with Christen’s hair tangled across her face is almost too enticing. 

Anything seems good next to the nine year old covered in dirt that sticks chewing gum into his friend's hair two minutes into her first class of the day. Anything with Christen always seems good. 

Not even four coffees in as many hours and waving her students through the school gate, decked out in a fluro jacket to, apparently, limit the risk of her being hit by a WASP Mum in her minivan while kids she adores, if barely recognises, blink up at her with toothless smiles and heavy lisps to say “Good morning, Coach Heath.” 

Tobin loves her job. She loves kids. She especially likes that they circulate rumours of excitement about her juggling abilities so that she can be lovingly harassed into displaying them for her class when they behave particularly well. 

She loves Christen and sleep more than all of it, though, and she only got a few hours of each. 

“Wow, are the bags under your eyes Prada?,” Allie says, when she drops into the roller chair across from Tobin’s desk with an awaiting grin. Tobin doesn’t dignify it with anything but a flat look. There’s a clump of gum on the bottom of Allie’s boot, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it as she rests her legs in Tobin’s lap. “You look exhausted.”

Both of them have a free period, leaving them time to tie up the loose ends of the term before the break for the Holidays. Allie teaches 4th grade English, to varying success, judging by the unmarked work on her desk and her bothering of Tobin. She’s also the middle years leader. Technically she’s Tobin's boss. Tobin has seen her vomit all over her shoes and then follow it by sculling two beers in college, though, so her authority is flimsy at best. 

“Yeah, I,” Tobin pauses, weighing the risk versus reward of sharing the tale of her worse-in-the-daylight baking attempts, “Don’t think I want to tell you about it, actually.” 

Allie wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, and Tobin rolls her eyes, shoving Allie’s feet off of her. She doesn’t know what it says about her pride that she would be more inclined to tell Allie that sort of story than she is to explain her confectionary failures. 

“Christen got back last night?”    
  
“Yep,” Tobin says with a pop, tapping her pen against the edge of the desk. She needs to plan the rest of this week's lessons, but she’s fairly sure her kids are going to insist on dodgeball or snow fights no matter how much effort she puts into it. They’ll probably try and convince her to put on a Christmas movie like half the faculty - Allie included - have already resolved to do. 

“Is she good?” Allie asks. Tobin hums an affirmative. They’d seen each other at Friday drinks the week before. Tobin honestly doesn’t feel the need to give a full rundown of every mood Christen’s had since.

Allie tosses one of the tennis balls that rests on the edge of Tobin’s desk in the air and fumbles to catch it again, her wedding ring casting sparkles across the room, a familiar enough background that it isn’t really enough to distract her from running through ideas for the week's lessons. She could make them do the beep test, because it’s easy and some of the kids have been giving her hell recently and sort of deserve it. Even if the curriculum has it set up for March and they’ve well and truly passed it. 

Whatever, Jake with spiky hair and a Dad who seriously thinks his thirteen year old who wipes snot across his shoes is going to play in the NBA despite his probably diagnosably dyspraxic lack of coordination has been driving her insane all semester. He can suffer another beep test. 

“Are you guys visiting her parents for the holidays again?” Allie asks. 

“We were thinking about inviting them here.” Tobin shrugs, clicking out of a folder of lesson plans to scroll through her email. It’s overfilled with chain replies to staff builtans and Mark who thinks STEM is the only viable career pathway sending indignant reminders about an excursion her students are being pulled out for. 

“Thinking? Harry, that’s like, super last minute.” 

“It’s not.”

“Sorta, kinda, definitely is.” Allie inisits, peering at Tobin like she's grown a second head. 

“Chris wanted to, man,” Tobin shrugs, which is honestly all the explanation she feels the need to give. It's good enough for her. It’ll make Christen happy, and Tobin’s always sort of imagined a future that includes too many sparkling ciders and a late night scraping off plates in the kitchen she shares with Christen. It’s that simple. 

Allie raises her hands in defeat, dragging her feet off Tobin’s lap, but not before leaving a drag of dust on her shorts. Tobin sends her what is intended to be a withering look but is probably more fond amusement than anything else. “Family Christmas, though. You really are old marrieds” 

“We aren’t married.” Tobin points out. 

“Not the point.” Allie says, “When are you gonna get on that, anyway?” 

Tobin shuts the top of her laptop, spinning in her chair to face Allie head on and wrinkling her forehead. “What do you mean?” 

Allie squints at her, “Marrying Chris. When are you gonna do it?”

“I’ve never really thought about it,” Tobin shrugs, crossing her fingers over her stomach. They need to go shopping for a Christmas tree and decorate it. She needs to finish her Christmas shopping, and submit her student reports, and she runs an inventory of her day as Allie peers at her.

“Tobin.” Allie says, rolling her eyes. 

Tobin honestly doesn't know what point she’s trying to make. Only that she’s looking at her like she’s the idiot. Like she should have a firm grasp on whatever weird conversation they transitioned into while Tobin was distracted by her lesson plans. 

She’s been with Christen for five years. She’s been something nearing madly in love with her for six, ever since she wandered into an exhibition on post modernism at the Portland Art Museum and spent the next six hours trailing after the enigmatic curator who, in Tobin’s mind, knew everything about everything. She’d gone back to the gallery once a week for nine months in an undying effort to convince Christen she was worth a personal tour. She’s spent most days since she wore how down on it trying to keep her convinced. 

Christen was the endgame. Tobin never really thought about marrying her, though. That wasn’t in the abstract painting of their future that she’d done up. It’s just… not something she thinks about. 

Except, of course, when Christen wears that one white sundress she mostly saves for visits back to her parents place in Los Angeles. Or the white dress with the black buckle she wears to work sometimes. Or the white coat she wears when it's particularly cold. And sometimes Tobin lets the thought flit across her head when Christen walks her way from across a room, the people surrounding her creating makeshift aisles. Occasionally she imagines bouquets tossed through the air when they walk past the florist.    
  


It isn’t something she  _ thinks _ about, though. Absolutely no energy has been invested into the idea. Tobin has always assumed they’d end up where they end up and roll the dice from there. As long as Christen was around and along for the spin she was good. That was the only promise she needed to make. 

Tobin would be remiss not to have considered the taste of the words “my wife” on her tongue, or the sight of Christen with a ring engraved with a date they picked out together, but that didn’t mean that-

“Oh,  _ shit _ ,” Tobin hisses, leaning back in her chair. The sky has opened up ahead of her and the clouds spell  _ Oh My God, Oh My God, Oh My God. _ Santa is coming down in his sleigh to drop a huge sack of coal labeled ‘stupidity’ on her head, “I want to marry Christen”

“Yes,” Allie says, as if it’s a passing comment on the weather. 

“No, like, I actually want to marry her. With a wedding. And rings. For keeps.” 

Allie raises her eyebrows . “Once again, yes.”

Tobin gapes at her and Allie stares back for a moment. When Tobin doesn’t move, Allie chokes on air, spluttering across the desk. Tobin, still a little caught up in the image of Christen in a wedding dress, of picket fences and forever in a way that's complicated in its undoing and spoken in its promise, thumps her on the back. 

When she’s got her breath back, Allie tips her head to gawk at her, “You didn’t know?” 

“No. What do you mean  _ ‘you didn’t know?’  _ There was nothing to know until two minutes ago.” 

“Tobin, everyone knows. Literally all of our friends.  _ Christen _ knows. What the hell, Harry?” 

“She doesn’t.” Allie levels her with a flat look. Tobin’s mouth falls open of its own violation, “Oh my  _ god _ .”

Tobin isn’t in the business of talking down on herself all that much. As a rule, she knows what she knows and what she doesn’t is just something to learn. No need to stress over it. That’s her typical philosophy, anyway. This gets an exception, because this seriously feels like something she should’ve been aware of. 

“Am I stupid?” She whispers, more to herself than to the judgmental present company, but Allie snorts and nods her head easily anyway.

“Yeah, dude. I think you might be.” And Tobin would protest that, except the only thing she has the capacity to even think about is the image of Christen’s mouth forming the word ‘yes’ to a question it never occurred to her to ask. So, what are you gonna do?

  
  


*

Here’s the thing, Tobin has always known Christen was  _ it _ . Forever and always, till death do us part, us and a coffee machine and the dent we put in the wall that lost the security bond. She was it for her, no question. Tobin is no poet, she loves what she loves with fierce loyalty and holds genuine everything that nudges itself into her chest, but she doesn’t wax lyrical about it all the time. She just does.

It's why when Christen said ‘I love you’ a month and a half after they met, Tobin hadn’t been thinking about saying it back, because her mind was set on the handmade card she’d given her a month before that. One that was made from the best craft paper she could find which she had dedicated hours into without any qualms. 

Tobin hadn’t really thought about saying ‘I love you’, because in her mind, she’d been there, done that, made the postcard. 

There isn’t a question about it. No point of perhaps. Neither of them ever doubted whatever spark jolted through their bloodstream when they first touched. When the warmth beneath Christen’s fingertips had swirled into the goosebumps on Tobin’s arms and she’d felt heat that still lingered sometimes when she made coffee for them in the morning, or when Christen got home after days away, or when she discovered that apparently, all that had meant she wanted to marry her all this time. 

Christen was it for her. That wasn’t in doubt. Guest lists and cakes you couldn’t even eat for hours upon hours while everyone got their photos in had just never been that strong a part of the consideration. 

She didn’t have anything against marriage. She liked weddings well enough, had held hands with Christen through Ashlyn and Ali’s, and held Allie’s flowers and posed for pictures at her and Bati’s. They were nice. Sometimes she cried and Christen always smiled at her with that sweet little edge she reserved for just the two of them and tenderness. 

She wanted Christen forever, she just hadn’t thought of that in diamonds before. 

Maybe her Christmas gift this year was enlightenment. Weird, since she was pretty certain it was going to be half a dozen mugs with soccer balls and ‘World's Best Teacher’ painted on them from her students and a nice pair of socks from her parents. 

She’s so wrapped up in the visual image of Christen with a wedding ring and the constant stream of ‘what the fuck’ running through her brain that she doesn’t even see the dodgeball one of her well meaning students nails her in the head with until it’s too late.    
  
Honestly, she probably needed it. 

“Holy  _ shit _ ,” the kid yells, Jaden, she thinks. His eyes are blown so wide Tobin thinks they might pop out of his face, and he slaps a hand over his mouth when she raises her eyebrows at the swearing. 

Tobin rubs at the side of her head blinking out of her trance. “Don’t blaspheme in the gym.” 

“Coach Heath I didn’t mean-”

“You’re good, little dude. Don’t swear, though. Not cool.” She shrugs, prodding at the side of her face. Jaden still looks like he’s about to cry, so she shoves the thoughts of her unravelling personal life aside and sets about calming down the class of distressed nine year olds in gym clothes already too pumped up on the chocolates Allie gave her English class. 

She’d set them on dodgeball because it was easy and she still remembers the competitive edge it had always inspired in her, the way she’d plotted out elaborate rouses and war plans in order to nail her friends in the chest with plush red balls. The kids were never going to go along with the beep test or working on techniques. It was better to just indulge their tween rage and let them have at it during the Christmas season. 

Sometimes that just meant accepting being smacked in the head. 

It takes a half hour after school finishes to calm Jaden down, the kid too distressed over the possibility of having hurt his teacher and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad consequences he’s convinced himself must ensue to see reason. It’s enough to drown Tobin’s racing thoughts out a little. She pinches a candy cane from administration for Jaden and colours with him while they wait for his Dad to come pick him up.

His Dad’s car has tinsel twined around the roof brackets and his left hand is weighted with a gold band. Tobin stares resolutely at the festive trimmings of the minivan.

There’s a text message waiting in her phone when she finally gets back to her office at a quarter past four. 

3:07pm

Allie:  _ Don’t forget the staff party is TONIGHT!!  _

Tobin rests her head against the back of her chair and tries to will away the intrusive thoughts Allie has planted in her head. It’s Christmas, a time for merriment and tree trimming, not freaking out about things that, apparently, you should’ve known the whole time. 

*

Tobin hates the staff Christmas party every single year. It involves drunk new grads getting drunker than should be possible off red wine and eggnog alone and learning far too much about the STEM faculties strange personal lives. Tobin would be more than content to simply skip it and have a night at home. Pop a bottle of champagne with people she actually likes without having to put on nice clothes. 

It's sort of expected, though, and ditching has, historically, been worse than attending. Let them never forget the carolling incident of 2017. She still shudders at the memory of wine stained teeth and colleagues at her doorstep. Still is vaguely confused how they got her address. So, every year she grins and bares it and tries to get out of there before 10. Every single year that plan is thwarted by Allie and Alex dragging her into their gossiping and Kelley egging them on far too easily after a couple of beers. English teachers could spin a story about anyone, and Kelley was just excited to get to hang out with people that weren’t maths obsessed. Tobin didn’t like any of it, but it was better with Christen to keep her company. 

Christen’s digging through her purse when Tobin slips into their apartment. She rests in the doorway for a moment to watch her. Her hairs in curls, spilling over the top of a hoodie, her work slacks still shaping her legs. She’s tired in the way the both of them always are. The way all of their friends and colleagues have been for what feels like forever, is really only five years; half a decade of tired and aged and pain that feels like love. 

They would’ve been wrapped up in coats and warmed by tequila on a Friday night during the holidays years ago. Somehow, someway, they ended up here instead. Tobin watches as Christen pulls a tube of lipstick from the depths of her bag. She’s content for this kind of an evening instead. Even if she hates staff parties, she likes Christen enough to make up for anything. 

“Hey,” Tobin says, a little hoarser than she intends. She clears her throat as Christen looks up, smiling winningly. “Cute top.” 

It's emblazoned with a proud ‘University of North Carolina,’ and Christen rolls her eyes deliberately. “It’s cold. Don’t think anything of it beyond that.” 

“I’m definitely gonna.” Tobin hums, stepping all the way into the apartment and shutting the door behind her, checking the lock instinctively before crossing to lean against the counter. 

Christen gives her a pointed look, but has nothing further to say. Tobin fiddles with the lipstick Christen left on the bench between them, squinting at the tiny name of the shade printed at the bottom. She screws her face up in confusion when she makes out  _ ‘One Step Ahead.’  _ How was that meant to tell you the colour? 

“How was your day?” Christen asks, plucking the lipstick from her and applying it in a smooth line. Tobin watches the crease of her lips hypnotically. She’s probably already half ready to go to the party.

“Fine. Got hit in the head with a dodgeball.” Tobin shrugs, staring at Christen’s left finger where it's curved around the edge of the lipstick. Her nails are about the length she likes to cut them. There’s a bead of sweat on her fingertip. What sticks is how very bare it suddenly seems. 

“Again? Are you okay?” Christen says, face scrunching up in gentle concern, tilting her head about as if seeking any visible bruising. The kind almost impossible to get from a soft red ball. 

“No. I’m crippled. Like, babe, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can go to the party tonight, we’ll have to call in sick, you know, for my health.” Tobin sighs dramatically, lolling her head to the side and pouting as dramatically as she can. Christen’s laugh is only an exhaust of breath, but it's sweet like candy canes and strawberry wines. 

“Get dressed, Tobin.” She says, firmly sweet. It was worth a shot. 

*

In an eternal effort to attempt to enthuse the staff party with a little bit of class, probably a silent warning to the adults who’ve been stuck with children for years on end not to go off the rails at their first sip of eggnog, the party is held in a bar downtown. The wood of the bartops are lined with holly and cherries. It's cute. Tobin will give it that. 

She did have to wear a dress and put effort into her hair to be here, though, and she isn’t sure that some leaves make up for that. Skipping next year already sounds good. She’ll take the drunk carolers. They weren’t even that bad. Off tune, yes. Disgruntled, absolutely. Had they attempted to come into her home while both of those things? Sure. But she’d been wearing track pants so like, cost/benefit, you know?

“Tobin,” Christen mumbles from beside her, a hand reaching out to cup her elbow, “I can hear you plotting an escape in your head.” 

“Telepathic much?” 

“Tobin.”

Tobin sighs, rubbing a hand across her eyebrow. “Yeah, alright. I’ll be positive.” 

Alex and Allie are tucked into a booth towards the back of the bar, heads pressed together and gossip flying hot between them. Servando and Bati are leaning on the bar, chatting their way through stiff sips of beer. All four of them have some variation of a wedding ring on. Christen doesn’t, and neither does Tobin. It shouldn’t bother her. It does anyway.

“I’ll get you a drink. Mingle,” Christen says, brushing her knuckles along the edge of Tobin’s shoulder, already drifting away. Tobin would be happier to be stuck to her like glue all night, but she smiles at her and mumbles a thanks, watching as she squeezes up next to Megan at the bar, Sue towering over both of them to flag down the bartender. Sue’s got an engagement ring on these days. Christen still doesn’t.

Tobin stands in the dead centre of the bar for a beat too long, blinking when someone brushes past her shoulder. Its Ashlyn, appearing with a shark-like grin, draping an arm around Tobin too forcefully to be fully casual. She’s clearly a few drinks deep already. 

“Toby! Look at you.” Ashlyn leers. There’s a floppy Santa hat draped over her hair. A wedding band on her left finger. Good God is fucking everyone in the world married, what the  _ hell _ . 

“Hey Ash,” She smiles as genuinely as she can. “Cute hat.”

“Thanks, it's Gucci.” Ashlyn says. Tobin snorts. Across the room, Allie waves an arm to grab their attention, gesturing through the heavy air of the room to bring them to their leather seats and pint covered table. 

Tobin sighs her defeat before they even start moving, and Ashlyn keeps her arm firmly slung over Tobin’s shoulder. It’s her left arm, and Tobin can see her wedding ring glint in the warm glob of the bar with every step they take. Tobin is fairly sure engagement rings weren’t this prevalent in the world a week ago. 

Allie and Alex shift over to make room for the two of them in their booth. The seats are pleated and the table is a little sticky. Tobin can tell from breathing the air around them that both Allie and Alex are already quite a few drinks in. Ashlyn seems to be maintaining a solid buzz. Probably the superior strength. Tobin’s too lean to drink the way she does, but she’ll meet the challenge of all this spiced liquor if it means getting out of this event unscathed. 

“So, TH,” Allie says in greeting, an evil grin in full force, nodding towards Christen at the bar. So much for being unscathed. “You get on that?” 

“Nothing to get on.” Tobin grumbles, sinking into her seat. Alex watches her critically while Allie rolls her eyes. Next to her, Ashlyn perks up in excitement. “It's not even, like, it's not a thing, you know.” 

“Sister, I don’t know that at all.” Ashlyn says with a snort. Tobin tries to elbow her ribs, but she dodges in time to avoid it. 

“We’re not-” Tobin starts, sighing. 

“Tobin,  _ sweetheart _ ,” Alex cuts in “You’re going to marry Christen and the two of you are going to buy a house in the burbs and have 2.5 kids and be even more insufferably in love than you already are. You are the only one surprised by this.” She says, clasping her hands firmly between them on the table. Her lips set into a firm, certain line. 

“How do you have half a kid?” Tobin muses, blinking through the edges of the eggnog she downed. 

“It’s the annoying one you love less” Allie says easily sipping at her wine with a smirk. 

Tobin shakes her head resolutely. “I would never love one kid half as much.”

“Yeah, Al, that’s kinda fucked up.” Ashlyn says. 

“I said less, not half”

“But the .5 implies-“

“It’s the average, you idiot-“

“Can we get back on topic?” Alex snaps, rapping her knuckles against the table, effectively returning the tables attention to her. 

“What was the topic?”

“Tobin and Christen are going to get married.” Allie says helpfully, shit stirring grin eating up her face. 

Tobin drops her head into her hands and groans as loudly as she can. She seriously needs new friends. Or better awareness of the particulars of her emotions. Maybe both. “She hasn’t actually said yes”

“You haven’t asked.”

There is that. But she could. That's also a feasible option, come to think of it. She’s not a great public speaker, and she tends to struggle with expressing herself properly in spoken words in general, but she could string together _ ‘Christen’ _ and  _ ‘Will you’  _ and  _ ‘Marry me.’ _ Just the last two would probably do it. Sure, she’d love to express things like the fact that when Tobin closes her eyes the sun always sets the colour of the inbetween green of Christen’s eyes, that she can almost taste the hard candy they’ll split when they’re 80. It would probably be better if she wrote it down, though, and proposing via text seems disingenuous. 

So. “I have to go propose.” She says. Alex chokes on her sip of wine and Kelley snorts as she thumps her on the back. 

“Do not” Alex hisses, 

“No, this is foolproof.” Tobin says, nodding while she peers around the room. Christen was by the bar last she saw her, chatting to the principal. Tobin was fairly sure they had been discussing the most effective way to gift wrap and the benefits of using double sided tape. 

If she can just find Christen, then she can ask and put this whole thing to rest. 

“Harry, I swear,” Allie sighs, “If you wanna marry Christen you’re gonna need a ring. And a plan. She loves plans. You love her. What the hell are you doing, man?” 

“You can propose at gaymas!” Ashlyn exclaims. 

Tobin screws up her nose. ‘Gaymas’, as Ashlyn insisted on calling it, was the booze heavy dinner they’d had on Christmas Eve with Ashlyn and Ali and Megan and Sue the last few years. There was a Bad Santa and usually a lot of shouting. “I told you to stop calling it that.” 

“And I told you that you weren’t the boss of me.” Ashlyn sniffs. Tobin rolls her eyes. 

“Tobin, listen to me,” Alex says, carefully, and Tobin shifts her attention back to her. Her eyes are serious this time, flat and alert. As if the point she's trying to convey is urgent. Tobin blinks against the force of it. She thinks she’d feel braver beneath it if Christen were next to her. “Marriage is a big deal, okay. It matters to you, obviously, even if you’re late to the party on that. But you have to treat it like it's sacred. Because it is. Don’t make rash decisions about it.”

Tobin nods. She can do that. She can treat marrying Christen the way she treats Christen. Sacred. Precious. Obvious. 

Peace, love, joy, all that stuff. Whatever. Christen, that's the point.

*

The apartment is quiet when they get home, an hour later than Tobin had committed to staying, nothing but the embers of the fireplace crackling distantly and the clicking of their shoes against the floorboards. Tobin is comfortably buzzed and less comfortably wired up. As if the spiced alcohol, all cinnamon and sweet crackle, has unlocked a chamber of her heart that screams its urgency. A piece of her brain that screeches to a halt. 

Tobin never likes the staff party. It's not her scene in the slightest. This year, it had been made worse by the ongoing crisis she was experiencing. Now she had to fit shopping for an engagement ring into planning a holiday dinner. Into work. Into trying not to flip out. Into being wildly in love. 

Five drinks later and Allie gripping her by the shoulders to say  _ ‘relax, you’ve got this’ _ in the doorway to the bar, she was free to fall asleep next to the love of her life and pretend that she totally had whatever ‘this’ was. 

Christen slips her shoes off, placing them carefully in the cubby by the door. Tobin tracks snow at least halfway into the kitchen before toeing hers off. Neither of them comment on it. The routine is well worn and well understood. 

“Do you want a coffee?” Christen asks, voice hushed in the quiet of their home. Tobin plops herself down into the stool by the kitchen bench while Christen pulls a glass from the cabinet and hesitates over switching the kettle on. 

“Nah, I’m fine,” Tobin says, distractedly. Christen moves away from the kettle and turns instead to the fridge, pouring herself a glass of water and leaning back against the stove. Too bluntly and too loudly, Tobin says in a rush, “How do you feel about marriage?”

Christen looks at her with wary eyes. She taps a finger against the edge of the glass, and it's a testament to how well they know each other that Tobin can essentially guess her response off that tick alone. “Conceptually or personally?”

“All of the above,” Tobin offers with a shrug, “But mainly the latter.” 

“I think it’s good for some people. Not for everyone. I think you don’t need it to be secure, but it’s nice if you want it.” Christen seems to test each word on her tongue before annunciating it, her jaw a little tense as she thinks her way through. 

“Do you feel like we’re, you know, some people?” 

“Tobes, I don’t think we’ve ever just been like other people. We’re dancing to our own beat in our own street.” 

“That's sweet,” Tobin smiles. Christen returns it, nodding her glass at Tobin across the bench. “Doesn’t totally answer the question, though.”

Christen grins coyly. “It answers the only one you asked.” 

“You’re so annoying,” Tobin sighs dramatically, shaking her head with a fake ruefulness. Christen laughs. 

“You love it,” 

“I love  _ you _ ,” She says, a little stubborn on the edges, like it's more of a challenge or opposition than it is a declaration or gentle assurance, but Christen’s smile softens like she sees past that and into its sincerity. 

“Same thing,” Christen says, and yeah, it sort of is. 

She always feels calmer around Christen, like the noise in her brain is turned down by a notch, letting her simmer in the pure form of feeling. She’s a woman of action, and Christen is one of few that lets her speak through that. 

Freak outs always seem to pale around Christen. But the answer, unspoken, feels terrifyingly sudden in front of her. 

“You know you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” Tobin says, simply, and means it. It's as obvious as saying ‘Merry Christmas’ on the 25th, as obvious as midnight mass or making pudding. Happens every year for all the same reasons. 

Christen rolls her eyes, “Last week you said Christmas cake was the best thing that's ever happened to anyone.”

“Alright, second best then.”

Christen laughs, but she moves around the table and presses into Tobin’s side, a hand slipping over her hip. She nuzzles her cheek up against Tobin’s. Not for the first time, Tobin thinks that she couldn’t love anybody more. She loves Christen in ways that don’t make sense. Ways that will last long beyond the moment, and yet will allow them to live in it forever. 

In short, she’s absolutely besotted by her, and she wouldn’t change it for the world. 

Christen presses a kiss to the underside of her jaw and murmurs, “Love you.” 

“But am I the second best thing that happened to you, closely following Christmas cake?” Tobin asks, rubbing circles across Christen’s neck.

“No. But you’re probably the second best thing that ever happened to me, closely following that painting restoration kit my Dad got me for Christmas when I was twelve.” Christen says, contemplatively, pressing her nose into Tobin’s cheek. Tobin laughs.

“Fair.” 

“Christmas tree tomorrow?” Christen says, sounding more like  _ ‘this is what we’re going’ _ than  _ ‘do you want to?’  _ Tobin really doesn’t mind. 

“Whatever you want.” 

*

The snow is sticking in fat clumps along the streets, icy shards and chilly mounds of water and slosh. It’s cold enough to manage, beautiful enough to weather. Christen, in all her hatred for any gust of wind or temperature below a cool summer's day, is bundled into mountains of clothing. A knitted beanie drags strands of her hair into her eyes and her mittens swaddle her hands. Tobin peeks glances at her the whole drive. She’s spent enough time rotating around Christen’s solar system to know not to outright laugh, but she can’t help the fondness that curls her lips.

Sometimes she wonders why she ever wonders at all. As long as she has this, too many clothes and a heater itching at her from where it's been turned all the way up and all, she needn’t really worry about anything. 

Maybe that’s what love is, the absence of stress mixed through caring enough to worry. Maybe that’s why her Mum spends every holiday frazzled at a kitchen stove but melts in her Dad with a glass of wine and a humming of Santa Baby while all the kids make gagging noises. Feed them well, love them well, be well. 

That doesn’t change the fact that she’s also painfully aware of the fact that were Christen to tug her mittens off her left ring finger would be conspicuously bare. 

That doesn’t change the fact that when Tobin introduces Christen she feels an increasing wrongness as she stumbles through ‘my girlfriend.’ It’s impolite to dump your beating heart into a strangers hands and ask them to hold it for just a moment while you catch your breath, but that doesn’t change the desire within her to express that Christen isn’t any one easily packaged word that still, after all this time, makes her think of lip gloss smiles and the mall when it's written down. Makes her stomach swoop in defiance when spoken from her or another woman's mouth. It isn’t enough of a word. No letters ever could be.

How do you tell a stranger that you never make the coffee on a Sunday because you like getting to walk into the kitchen and find her already brewing it for you? That the silhouette in the doorway is more of a fit key than any door you’ve ever tried. How can you explain that when you hear the first few letters, the first few sounds, that fit into her name your heart picks up a beat and your full body swivels to attention? Even all these years later.

You can’t put it into words. It's too much. This skirted around vow of living and dying on her touch and promising to stick to the former for as long as she does. There aren't enough letters in the alphabet or sonnets in Shakespeare’s complete collections or contracts they can sign, but there is a diamond ring to touch against when you need to know that someone understands, and there is the word ‘wife.’ 

That could almost fill it. What it lacks will be forgotten in the fact that Christen knows what lies beyond those four letters, even if no one else quite does. 

“You’re being quiet,” Christen murmurs, turning down the radio a notch and cutting Tobin a glance.

Tobin smiles, but keeps her eyes on the twisting road ahead of her. “I’m always quiet. I’m mysterious. It’s, like, part of my charm.” 

Christen laughs, loud in the confined space of the car and ringing like bells, shaking her head where it rests back against the headrest. 

“You’re not mysterious at all. Your middle name is Powell.” Tobin cuts her a glance, “No mysterious person is named Powell.”

“That's not-” Tobin splutters, flexing her fingers across the steering wheel. Christen laughs against the window plane, and Tobin supposes she has to let that one go. Even if it's like, totally not true. She could be mysterious. She could be mysterious as  _ hell _ . 

Just because she tells Christen everything - almost everything, not this, her mind supplies - doesn’t mean she couldn’t still sweep in like a cowboy and keep it quiet. 

Christen’s smile shifts into something a little more serious as she peers at Tobin, “Seriously, are you feeling okay? We can do this another day if you’d like.”

  
Tobin uses maneuvering the car into a snow heavy carpark as a chance to delay her answer, twisting the wheel around and glancing over her shoulder as she backs into it. Christen doesn’t waver, her gaze hot against the edge of Tobin’s vision. Tobin puts the car into park and drops back against the carseat. 

“I’m good, Chris. Just, like, tired I guess.” Tobin says. Christen nods like she doesn’t believe a word of it. That's probably why Tobin wants to marry her. That's probably why she didn’t know. “C’mon, lets get this stupid tree.”

Christen scoffs, as she swings open the car door, “Okay, scrooge.” 

The Christmas tree farm is cold and filled with red ribbons, twining around the trees not for sale and lining the neat rows of those they can cut down and take home for themselves. It feels like something out of a postcard. Idyllic lines of needles and the smell of pine. The smoke of a hearse wafts down from somewhere. Tobin could almost place the drops of cinnamon and salt on the ice. 

Families and couples roam through the trees, bundled in their coats, arguing over twisted trunks and lugging about saws. A few kids shriek as they try and shove snow down each other's jackets. The ice is almost sweet as it sets into their breath, and Tobin dutifully and happily follows Christen through row after row.

Christen is particular, kicking at the bottom of trees and wondering aloud on the merits of different heights and sizes. Their apartment doesn’t allow for thousand foot trees decked to the nines. Especially if they’re having family over. Tobin doesn’t bother to tell her that. She knows, and it doesn’t do any good to dwell on it..

Tobin would be fine if Christmas was the two of them and a fireplace. Would be fine if they went to midnight mass and slept the rest of the day, just the two of them. Would be fine with Christen and nothing else. Will be fine with anything Christen wants to add to that equation.

She watches as Christen stares up at a particularly tall tree and imagines dropping to one knee and just doing it right here, right now. Tell her she loves her with everything she has. That she wants it in paperwork and ceremony and whichever way she can have it forever and forever. Tobin loses her footing against the ice and slips, the moment passing. 

Christen picks a respectfully sized tree with spiked edges and a scratched trunk. Tobin knows they’ll deck it in silver bells and gold awning. Christen smiles through freezing lips at one of the kids who runs between them while they carry it back to the car. 

Suddenly, Tobin doesn’t know why she was worried at all. 

*

These are the reasons she’s worried; Christen could say no. Christen could say no, and Tobin’s daydreams account for painting themselves into nightmares for a lot of things, but she can’t handle that one. 

*

These are the reasons she’s not worried; Christen could say yes. The sugar stripes of that candy cane is sweet enough to overpower the sharp edges that appear as she sucks on it. 

*

Tobin pushes the grocery cart while they browse the aisles of the supermarket, seeking out stuffing and a turkey big enough to feed a patchwork of two families. Tobin is fairly sure her Dad isn’t going to let her carve it, but it's worth a try anyway. The one they settle on is twice the size of her head, and Christen runs a smooth line right through the middle of it on her list, her neat handwriting mixed in with Tobin’s scrawl, Christen showing her the list every now and then and pointing to a word she can’t decipher. 

They get sacks of potatoes, a pumpkin she doesn’t know how to bake, cranberries, raspberries, and everything in between. Tobin tosses a pack of Christmas Crackers on the top of the rest of it and whistles as she follows Christen into the freezer aisle. Neither of them are really qualified to cook this much food. Certainly not well. There's a magazine that boasts ‘easy Christmas favourites’ on the front cover, though, so Tobin snags that in case all things go wrong and they have to resort to on the fly cooking. 

Their trolley is stacked full by the time they check it out, and Tobin winces at the sight of the bill. The cashier is wearing plush reindeer ears on the top of her head, presumably forced to by upper management, and Christen murmurs a compliment of them. The girl, bored looking and likely at the end of an hours long shift dealing with holiday shoppers and the stress achieved only by 30 year old mothers of eight, beams at the gentle sincerity of Christen’s tone.    
  
Tobin beams right back as they leave. Her smile is a lot less related to the ears. 

“We’re sorta killing being adults,” Tobin muses, shoving the trolley forward so she can cruise on it, heels off the ground, stale shopping centre air whipping at her skin. Christen makes a stressed noise when the wheels wobble, and Tobin sets herself back to the ground. 

Christen raises her eyebrows, glancing pointedly at the trolley, “You think so?”

“I’m just saying that if being in love was a competition we’d be winning.” Tobin shrugs, unapologetic. Their friends would try and fight it, she’s sure, but she doesn’t doubt that they’d come out victorious. 

“I love you so much sometimes.” Christen says, sounding half resigned to the fact, half fond. Her eyes shine a little in the stark lighting. Glistening and kind. 

Before she does something embarrassing, like drop to one knee and yell ‘Merry Christmas, be my wife right now immediately,’ Tobin tuts exaggertaedly, “See, now you’re slacking. Sometimes isn’t going to win us the race.”

“But I said _ ‘so much’ _ ’”

“I like the enthusiasm but you can’t win an endurance race on the sprint alone.”

“Depends how fast of a sprinter you are, I suppose.” Christen says, forehead creasing as if she’s giving genuine thought to the idea. Yeah, they’d totally win this competition. 

Tobin just snorts, resting over the bars of the trolley and picking at her cuticles while Christen ducks into one of the bakeries, mumbling something about some desert she wants to try making. Tobin doesn’t have the heart to mention that they probably aren’t skilled enough to make it. Instead, she shoves the trolley against the wall of a pop up stall. 

It's cabinets sparkle with jewellery, long necklaces and silver bangles. Tobin peers at them absently. They rest in a shock of blue, navy pillowing keeping every sparkle and diamond perfectly in place. The woman behind the counter wipes at a set of watches and keeps half an eye on Tobin. 

Right in the middle of the display is an engagement ring with a jagged cut of gold around diamonds, each resting around the centre. Tobin doesn’t know all that much about jewellery. She knows a lot about Christen. 

Christen has disappeared into the warmth of the bakery a few hundred metres away, only the occasional glimpse of the back of her head visible as she chats to the woman in the storefront. Tobin glances between the box of Christmas crackers on the top of the trolley and the ring. With a wide smile, she flags down the woman behind the counter. 

*

Tobin isn’t freaking out, per say, but she is, sort of, you know, losing it. Just a little bit. She sort of thought it would ebb off a little when she managed to transport the conspicuous as hell velvet box from her pocket to her sock drawer, but then Christen went looking for a pair of socks, and Tobin only remembered that particular drawer was shared in time to smack her knee against the bedpost in her urgency to get there first. 

She burns her hand on a pan of test run turkey and rests her forehead against the faucet while she runs cool water over it. She’s  _ screwed _ . 

Christen presses a kiss to the back of her hand when she assesses the burn. She’s probably fine. 

*

She shows Ashlyn the ring at Gaymas dinner. Ashlyn screams so loud Tobin has to hit her arm to shut her up while Christen squints at them suspiciously before disappearing into the kitchen with Ali. 

Ali whispers something in Ashlyn’s ear when she gets back, and the two of them turn smug grins on Tobin for the rest of the dinner, distracted only by Sue and Megan’s playful bickering over Kris Kringle presents. 

Tobin downs her wine. 

*

The night before the family dinner Tobin gets a paper cut trying to shove a diamond ring that cost months of her salary into an eight dollar Christmas Cracker without setting off the gunpowder. Christen furrows her brow at the bandage across her thumb when she comes to bed, cracker safely tucked away amongst the stack of presents. Neither of them say anything about it.

Tobin is fairly sure she’s going to blow this whole thing. 

*

The morning of the family dinner, Tobin pads out into the kitchen to find Christen slaving over a cooling tray of slightly misshapen Christmas cookies, cookie cutters strewn across the counter. There are pudgy stars and melted christmas trees. She thinks a few of them are supposed to be angels, but they mostly look like melted candle wax made sentient. It's a disturbing sight. 

Christen frowns down at them, her hair half up, swept off her face, an icing sugar dusted apron protecting her nicest top. She’s holding a piping bag in one hand, the pointer finger of her other resting against the tip of her nose.

Tobin wants to take a photo and keep the image forever. Wants to get down on one knee and beg for her hand in marriage so she gets a promise of seeing it every morning and holiday for the rest of her life. Tobin wants her softly and enduringly. 

She doesn’t say any of that. Instead, she smirks at the pile of crumbling cookies and makes herself a coffee before leaning up next to Christen at the counter. 

“Wow, Chris, that sucks.” Tobin says, nodding at the glob of icing on one the cookie's face. It’s misshapen and doesn’t look at all like what Tobin imagines Santa should look like; which is jolly and kind, not vaguely terrifying with an obscene sugar count. 

Christen pouts, but Tobin can see the joy in her eyes. Just as it does every single time Tobin makes fun of her. Just as it has for years. “Remember when we first started dating and you were really nice to me?” 

Tobin nods her solemnly, “I know, it was awful. I think I have like, a bunch of scars on my tongue from biting it so much.”

She sticks her tongue out, pointing at the totally unmarred middle, mumbling “See?”

Christen rolls her eyes and grabs Tobin by the waist, “I’ll  _ put _ a scar on your tongue.” 

Tobin’s laughter is cut off by Christen’s kiss, and she can’t complain about that. Not even one bit.

Their parents arrive almost exactly on midday, bustling through the door in oversized coats with extra large grins, cooing and commenting on their shoe rack and kitchen backsplash as if they haven’t all been in the apartment a thousand times before. Enough times to know that the shoe rack wobbles from the time Tobin fell on it when she was drunk and that the print of the backsplash is Christen’s least favourite thing about the whole place. 

They’d told their families not to bring anything, so of course they have three separate dishes of vegetables and a desert dumped onto the kitchen bench without a hint of apology. Christen huffs, but Tobin only shrugs at her before accepting a hug from Cody. Neither of them had really expected anything less. 

The Christmas cracker with half of her savings and all of her hopes and dreams is hidden behind the gravy in the centre of the table. Tobin is barely able to keep her eyes away from it, cutting her gaze to it every few seconds through the afternoon, sipping from her beers every time someone drags her attention back to the land of the living. 

More accurately, back to the land of the un-engaged, the un-proposed, and the un-rejected. 

Jeff elbows Channing playfully in the side over passing the potatoes. Tobin wants to see them this close, this comfortable, the rest of her life. Even if they always bring way more food than strictly necessary. 

Tobin’s Dad doesn’t let her carve the turkey. He and Cody do it together in some boastful display of ‘brotherhood’ - their words, not hers -, and it's the stupidest, most unjust thing in the world. Tobin pouts about it a solid five minutes before Christen laughs at her and she’s reminded that it's both of their Dads, together, in tradition and family, and suddenly Tobin doesn’t mind all that much. They let her say grace, at least, and she thanks God for family, begs Him for more of it. 

Grace is said and plates are served before they’re allowed to descend on the pile of Christmas Crackers, a tradition begun by a Great Aunt who’d spent a Christmas in New Zealand and brought them back with her. Tobin snags the one responsible for her papercut before anyone else can, hands only shaking enough to betray a slight rattle from it. 

Tobin isn’t sure the ring isn’t going to break when they crack it. Isn’t sure that Christen will realise what's happening. Isn’t sure it’ll fall out properly. Tobin isn’t fully sure that the ring won’t just fly through the sky and land in the pudding, splashing it up in all of their faces and ruining the evening. Isn’t sure that Christen won’t just say ‘no thanks’ and call it a day. 

She’s sure of Christen, though. Even if this feels odd and dumb and maybe ill advised. 

“Hey, you wanna?” Tobin gestures vaguely between the cracker and Christen, sitting next to her, with Tyler on her right. Tobin thinks she’s either going to cry or be sick. She isn’t sure which. 

Christen half smiles apologetically, “Sorry, I’m gonna do mine with Ty for old times sake. But you should with Jeff.”    
  
Tobin feels a little like a popped balloon, sagging as she nods as understandably as she can. They only got one go each. That was what the table was set for. Somehow, she’d forgotten to account for Christen saying ‘no’ before she realised what the real question was. 

She smiles stiffly and shrugs, “No big.”

Christen smiles easily back, turning to Tyler to fight over the cracker. 

“Wanna crack it, Toby?” Jeff asks, grinning unassumingly, already reaching to grab one end of her cracker. Tobin draws back as if burnt, cradling the cracker and the ring hidden inside it to her chest.    
  


“ _ Fuck _ no.” She says, vehement. Jeff stares at her like she’s gone insane and yeah, Tobin thinks as she keeps the cracker carefully in her lap to pick at her dinner, maybe she has. 

*

Tobin isn’t, like, pouting. She’s an adult, you know, she’s fine. It’s fine. Whatever. It’s chill, even. She’s putting the dishes back in their place in the cupboard in a totally appropriate and non aggressive way. Her lips just sort of set downward on their own, it doesn’t  _ mean _ anything. It definitely isn’t pouting.

What would she even pout about? Her long-term girlfriend rejecting her intricately planned, startlingly romantic Christmas Day proposal that would be witnessed by both of their families without even realising that's what she was doing? Uh, yeah, no way she is pouting about something like that. She literally couldn’t care less. Water off her back. 

The apartment is quiet with both their families back at their respective hotels and homes. It makes the scraping of plates and the sound of the steel wool against the oven pan sound louder than usual. Helped along by the fact that Tobin has been scrubbing hard enough to shine the bottom of it in ways she hasn’t seen since they bought it. Her arms ache a little with the repetition of the movement. 

Christen cuts her a look, drying one of their plates carefully. “You’re being weird.” 

“Sorry.” Tobin mutters, scrubbing the pan a little harder. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Christen asks, carefully, placing the plate in the cupboard gently, a small clink of china breaking the hesitation of her question. 

Tobin snorts, “Doesn’t sound like you want to.” 

Christen blinks at her, lips settling into a line, her face filled with frustration and confusion and something like the ‘you’re late, hurry up we have to go’ look she wears at the bottom of staircases and outside the bathroom when Tobin’s behind her schedule. 

“Tobin, sweetheart, sugarplum, darling, the all-I-want to my for-Christmas;” Christen pauses, looking pleased with herself at the grin she draws out of Tobin with that last one, “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning a pot, man, what does it look like.” Tobin shrugs.

“That's a pan. And it looks like you’re having a crisis. On Christmas. A Christmas crisis. We’re too young for that. That's for middle aged people with too many kids who are trying not to let their families know they’re going through a rough time while making passive aggressive over presents.” Christen says, matter of fact. 

Tobin sighs, dropping the steel wool to rest at the bottom of the now spotless pan. “Are we too young for it? Like, I kinda thought, maybe we were, you know, ready to be that.” 

“Ready to fight in front of our families?” 

“No. Like, not specifically. Or generally, actually, just, like, we’re at a stage where I thought that  _ you _ thought we might be that couple. The way our parents are, the way my sister is.” Tobin says, scratching at the back of her neck.

Christen stares at her, mouth falling open. Tobin feels sort of stupid, reaches to start scurbbing the pot again, but Christen lurches forward, grabbing her wrist before she can. “How did you know?” 

“Know what?” 

“You just-” Christen shakes her head, dropping Tobin’s arm and storming to the other side of the kitchen, climbing onto the stool they have set aside for the highest cupboard, the one neither of them can ever reach alone. “You’re so impatient. You just ruined it.” 

Christen swings the top cupboard open aggressively, digging around through it, echoey in the flatpack cupboard. “Christen,  _ what _ ?” 

“I had a  _ plan _ .” Christen mumbles, tugging something from the very back of the cupboard, on her tippy toes on the stool, scraping back onto her heels as she climbs down precariously. Tobin shakes at her head at her, befuddled. 

When Christen turns back around, her jaw is set, lips a line of annoyance and determination, and she’s cradling a black velvet box in her hands. Tobin swallows thickly, and Christen takes it as challenge, grasping the counter to help her to one knee at Tobin’s feet, staring up at her with burning tenderness in her eyes. She props the ring box open to reveal a thick gold band. 

Christen smiles a little, a flicker of amusement and daring, bravery and love. Tobin doesn’t know what she means by it. Doesn’t know anything, not a word in the English language, until she says, “Tobin, will you marry me?” 

Oh. 

_ Oh _ . 

  
  


Tobin blinks at her, stupefied. Her face was an uncomfortably blank mask all of a sudden. As if the wind has come along and stuck her this way. “You’re kidding.”

Christen blinks right back at her, lips turning down just a little, “No...” 

Tobin huffs a breath, shaking her head as she turns. She thinks she catches Christen’s expression stutter a little. That’s not what she intended on, but she honestly cannot even right now. Fully, bodily, cannot deal. Not even the magic Christen seems to hold in her pinkie fingers could give her the power to cope with this. 

Like, what the  _ hell _ ?

She rounds the counter, aware of Christen hovering in the middle of the kitchen still on one knee, seeming to be unsure whether to stand or stay as she is. Tobin digs through the pile of presents she’d left on the couch, flicking through new t-shirts and lego sets, feeling around for the paper edges of the Christmas cracker, grunting when she tugs it out and turns back around to Christen. Christen, who is gazing at her in half heartbreak, half confusion.

“You stole my line,” Tobin deadpans, tearing open the cracker and digging the ring out of it, holding it up. Christen gapes at her. Tobin grins. “Totally stepped on my moment.” 

Christen bursts into laughter, and it’s all Tobin can do to join her. Christen drops down to lean back on her thighs, leaning her temple onto the kitchen cabinets, heaving bursts of laughter. Tobin slides down next to her, the both of them clutching the others ring like a lifeline. 

“I was going to take you to see the snow tonight, I was gonna ask you to marry me because you always keep me warm. And you ruined it.” Christen says, grinning too brightly for there to be any real complaint. 

“You ruined mine! You were meant to crack the cracker, Christen. It was gonna be romantic as hell.” Tobin whines right back, reaching through the miniscule space between them to lay her spare hand across Christen’s knee. It’s warm, all rough edges and cracked skin. She brushes a fingertip along the dint from when Christen was 17 and fell off her bike racing down a hill, wondering how many dints she’s going to live to feel in these knees. How many she’s going to put her body between. 

“Is that a yes?” Christen asks, lolling her head against the counter to look Tobin dead in the eye, pressing closer. The lines of their bodies mountain slopes between them. A pangea of eventual reunion, inevitable connection of yearning edges. The world might not have ever come back together, but they always would. “Because I lied before. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. Second to none.” 

“Dude,” Tobin says, emphatically. Christen stiffens and draws back to stare at her.

“Can you repeat that? I just had this insane moment where I thought you called me ‘dude’ while I was proposing.”

“I can repeat it but you’re not going to like what you hear.”

Christen shakes her head, appalled, “I can’t believe I’m going to marry you,”

“I know, I’m a dream, you’re so lucky.”

“A nightmare, maybe,” Christen mutters, but then she’s tugging Tobin against her by the belt loops of her jeans and kissing her breathless, so Tobin doesn’t bother getting offended over it.

Tobin knows why she was worried, because how could she ever live without this? How could she go back to a time before the kitchen kisses and easing breathing. She also knows she never had to be, because with Christen there are only ever forwards. 

“You’re gonna be wife,” Tobin says when she draws back, and she feels like a kid in a candy store. More accurately, a kid on Christmas that comes downstairs to find a stocking full of presents. Every year again and again, and still that same rush of nostalgic presence and excitement. Yearning to keep the moment before it's even begun. 

Christen nods against her skin, and Tobin feels more than sees her smile,“Merry Christmas, Tobes.” Christen whispers. 

Tobin glances at the clock on the microwave, sees the blue glow of the 12:03am and smirks, smugly, “It's the 26th, babe. Too late.”

Christen scoffs, gearing up to argue about the technicality of time because what was three minutes anyway, and wasn’t Christmas a season, a state, a feeling more than it was confided to the confines of a single date, really, and Tobin smiles, settles back to hear it. 

She’s keeping Christen forever, in bows and blows. It's a pretty good Christmas. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](https://softnoirr.tumblr.com/)


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